She stopped using the dryer
soon after he left, letting
it fill with lint and dust
and the assorted coins
that he had always neglected
to fish out of his jeans.
No, better now to hang
her dreams and pillowcases
outdoors, free from the scent
of him, out on the clothesline
that runs along the weather side
clapboard of this old house
that is failing as quickly
as her faith, the clothes snapping
to attention in the west wind
toward the sea, just as she
remembers him, the linens
listing three sheets to the wind.